


History

by pendragonfics



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Ancient History, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Modern Character in Middle Earth, Otzi (The Iceman), Romantic Fluff, Slice of Life, Storytelling, gender neutral reader, no pronouns used
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:07:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28106754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendragonfics/pseuds/pendragonfics
Summary: Tell me a piece of your historythat you're proud to call your ownSpeak in words you picked upas you walked through life aloneA slow evening with Aragorn.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Reader, Aragorn | Estel/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	History

**Author's Note:**

> A request from my tumblr!

In the crux of afternoon and evening, the world often slowed itself to the same passage of time of those who did not observe it. The people who meandered through life, or spent their nights in a daydream. The other type was you; a companion of the great Strider himself, the adventurer Aragorn, and friend of the fellowship. Over time, you had grown closer with all the time apart, and now as the day slowed its decent to the gloaming, you were closer once more. Aragorn had bathed in a nearby stream, and whilst he did so, you sat at the edge of the camp. As you sit, an abandoned book in hand, you watch Legolas and Gimli as they watch Boromir mock-fight with the Hobbits. The elf and dwarf had seemed to warm up to one another, as time wore their grievances to stubs. 

Deep in your thoughts, you hardly noticed as Aragorn arrived at your perch, albeit, there was a certain musk that in your travels was wholly  _ his _ . At least, if you were snuck on by anyone, you would know by their scent. Before you could become distracted by the concept, you turned to Aragorn, meeting your eyes with his gaze. 

“Feel better?” You ask.

He nods, and quietly, bunkers down beside you. He lays his head upon your lap, his long legs curled in as if he were a kitten or a child. If you didn’t know him better, you would assume he was always this way; and yet, you knew from experience that this trust was earned. You cast the forgotten book aside, and fingers free, set to work on the tangled head of hair before you.

Aragorn hums in comfort. “You have not spoken of your realm, of late,” he prompts, your fingers unknotting the tangles from the days’ ride. “Your stories…they are most fantastical.” 

You raise a brow. “I thought I told you that  _ this  _ world was the fantastic one,” you tease. Exhaling, you pause at your ministrations, contemplating for a moment. “Then again, I think you’d think all the technology and fashions are mind-boggling.” 

From where he’s perched, you watch as Aragorn tilts his head toward the sky. But no matter how far his neck reaches, his gaze does not meet yours. Learning this, he feeds a hand from his side toward one of your motionless ones and runs a thumb over it. 

“We have spoken of the governance and history of your land…” Aragorn frowns. His hand squeezes yours, ever so lightly, a plea alongside his verbal one, “Tell me another story, _________.” 

“I thought you would be tired after today’s ride,” you comment, leaning to kiss the hand holding yours, “ _ and _ I told you, I’ve got no more stores. I’ve told you all of the recent histories from before I arrived here.” 

He responds almost instantaneously. “Yes,  _ recent _ history,” Aragorn hums. “Tell me of the past, of times long gone. Where did your people come from?” There is a sensation in your chest, deep within your body. It is below your collar, below your sternum. It cannot be your heart beating faster, as while you are in the presence of Aragorn, it is always that way. “What did they do?” 

“Well,” you start, “where I am from, all of us are human. Man is what you call it here. But despite that, we are spread far across the world, with different cultures and languages and attitudes.” With your unbound fingers, you feed them once more into his hair, pulling it from his forehead. Aragorn shifts comfortably under your touch, and uninterrupted, you continue, “and whether or not we understand one another, through action or by word, I think that we are all the same. Just people.” 

“That’s not a story,” Aragorn objected. 

“Well then, Lord Strider,” you hum, “I better get to it.” 

“This story is about the man found in the ice, on the Italian-Austrian mountains. We don’t know his name, but from now on, I’ll call him Ötzi. Now, he lived years and years ago, back when humankind was still learning how to harness the wilds of the world for their own innovation — and because we’re complicated with the timeline of ancient history, this was 3350 BCE, or 5369 years ago.” 

“That  _ is  _ long ago,” Aragorn murmured.

“Ötzi was forty-six years old and found in the ice almost thirty years ago. The people who found the body did research into it; because of their technology, and the fact he was preserved on the mountain, most of him was intact, and they began to make their discoveries. Later, they dug near where they found him and found his things. I think it was a hat, a longbow…oh! And string, too.” 

“A five thousand-year-old man, still on the mountain he died on,” Aragorn whispered, amazed. “What did they find?” 

“From memory, Ötzi was quite tattooed, and they found his last meal preserved in his belly. But they realised that he had not died on the mountain because of the elements; he had been struck down. There was part of an arrowhead here, in his shoulder,” you slip your hand from his, and move to where you remember your lecturer pointing it out on the slides. 

Aragorn stilled at the touch. 

“…another dig took place, to find any more of Ötzi’s belongings. It was then they found a knife, deeper than where they found him; as if when he died, it was too far for him to reach to defend himself.” 

“A warrior who strikes those without a weapon is no warrior at all,” he muttered. “Your Ötzi died a hero’s death.” 

“That was the thing, Aragorn,” you say, “his knife was special. According to the timeline of ancient history, the technology at the time was a mix of copper and tin. But his weapon was  _ iron _ . That was a rare metal at the time; so rare, that the time period named after it happened many years after Ötzi died.” You bite your lip, unsure how to make the story sound uplifting, considering the grimness of it, and the desolation of the quest to Mordor, but nevertheless, you prevail. “Whoever killed him knew that he had a precious thing.”

“And his name lives on, thousands of years after his passing,” Aragorn whispered. 

He shifted once more for comfort, and, with a deep breath, he reached once more for your hands, to hold you close, to hold you tight. It wasn’t like the other times anyone had held you; when he did, it was mutual; whilst he held you for his own reasons, equally, you held him. Because perhaps if you did so, tight enough, the moment would last a little longer. 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr on as @chaotic--lovely, and if you want to request a fic, check out [@pendragonfics](https://pendragonfics.tumblr.com/request_conditions)! ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ✿


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